Cast a cold eye, p.23
Cast a Cold Eye, page 23
‘He’s out reforming the wayward youth of our city,’ McDaid told her. ‘I’ll have a look. Something wrong, hen?’
She was still hesitant. ‘The Murder Squad have invited me to join them for a drink at the Steps Bar.’
‘Aye, to celebrate solving a case that isn’t actually solved yet.’ McDaid stepped behind Dreghorn’s desk, flopped into the chair. ‘Are you going?’
‘Perhaps for a wee bit. Feel I should, but . . .’ She made a face.
‘If you need a chaperone to gatecrash the party with you . . .’
‘Thanks, Archie. I should be safe enough in a pub full of polis.’ She smiled, didn’t sound convinced.
McDaid gave her what he hoped was a reassuring nod, but the thought of Strachan and Orr made him uneasy. ‘Keep your guard up and you’ll be fine. Or stick close to Tolli; he’s a pillar of sobriety, though he might then bore you to death.’
He watched with avuncular affection as Ellen left, admired her determination to prove herself, and thought of Mairi and her former career as a primary-school teacher, which she’d had to give up when they married. What would the world be like if the gender roles were reversed or allowed to exist in equal measure?
The country hadn’t fallen apart when war was raging, the men fighting on battlefields across the world, the women manning the home front. They’d held it all together so that there was something more to return to than the government’s empty promises. And he couldn’t imagine warfare erupting quite so readily if the likes of his Mairi had a say in it.
Opening the envelope, he laid the typewritten documents on the desk. A list of Glaswegian ex-soldiers who had volunteered for the Black and Tans or the Auxiliaries during the Anglo-Irish War, and their accompanying military records. Back from one war and straight into another one. In neither case, McDaid suspected, did they fully understand what they were getting themselves into. One driven by manipulated patriotic ideals that were quickly shattered, and the other by poverty and desperation, quickly descending into bitterness and brutality – beatings, burnings and shootings.
McDaid sighed, read through the list: ordinary, mundane names in alphabetical order. The home addresses given for the men would be out of date in many cases, but it was a good starting point. He crossed off those that were listed as ‘killed in action’, more than he expected, and put a mark beside the murder victims as he reached them – Smith, Reginald and Beattie, Harold – as well as their crony Anderson, Ronald.
Halfway down the third page, one name jumped out at him. He rocked back in his chair, stung by the implications, blinked, read the list again to make sure, then leapt to his feet as if the chair had caught fire under his bahookie.
He loosened his tie, looked around for some form of reassurance, wondered if he should seek out Sillitoe, in Dreghorn’s absence. Everything suddenly seemed askew, shadows formed in the dim light where usually there was clarity. He didn’t so much pace the room as stomp.
‘Archie?’ WPC Jean Malloy stood in the doorway, holding a brown envelope. ‘Sergeant Hammond sent up a photograph from the lab.’
‘Sergeant McDaid,’ the big man snapped. ‘Why’s he “Sergeant Hammond”, but I’m always “Archie” or “big man” to everybody?’
‘Sorry.’ Jean bristled. ‘Sergeant.’
McDaid wilted guiltily, lifted his hands.
‘No, I’m the one who’s sorry, hen. I’m just a wee bit scunnered – something I read. Call me Archie, call me whatever you want. Call me a big bawheid, because that’s what I am.’ He took the envelope from her. ‘What am I?’
She hesitated. He raised his eyebrow.
‘A big bawheid.’ Mischief in her eyes.
‘Exactly.’ He dismissed her with a smile and sat behind Dreghorn’s desk again, waiting until she was gone before opening the envelope and examining the newly cleaned photograph. The chair burst into flames again.
‘Mhac na galla!’
CHAPTER 37
‘A small port, imbibed with one’s colleagues to celebrate the successful conclusion of an investigation or taken at Hogmanay to ring in the New Year, is all the alcohol a man requires.’ DS Tolliver treated himself to an imperceptible sip of his drink. ‘Don’t you agree, Miss Duncan?’
Ellen wavered her head from side to side, not expressing an opinion either way. The question was pointedly rhetorical; she was already on her third port, which no doubt plunged her into scarlet-woman territory in Tolliver’s eyes.
She had followed McDaid’s advice for the Murder Squad’s excursion to the Steps Bar and stayed close to Tolliver, but the sergeant’s overwhelmingly humourless piety was enough to make anyone become a justified sinner. She wondered if he realized how much of a figure of fun he was to the other detectives, frowning at their sarcasm, increasingly colourful language and lewd comments about the busty barmaid who was serving them backchat along with their drinks.
Tolliver apologized again for their behaviour. ‘Men together are boys,’ he said, as if it was a law of the universe.
Graham Orr lurched over, though it was hard to tell if his gait was natural or down to the bevvy. He thrust two more glasses of port at Ellen and Tolliver.
‘It must be my round,’ she said.
‘No, no, no,’ Orr slurred. ‘Keep your hand out your purse, you’re our guest the night, you hear me.’
Tolliver held up a hand as if directing traffic. ‘Thank you, Graham, but I’m fine. As fine as I was on the previous two occasions.’
Orr looked momentarily bemused, then did exactly what he’d done on those previous occasions and knocked back Tolliver’s port in a oner.
‘Bleurrgh!’ he exclaimed. ‘Get yourself a real drink instead of this muck and you might fancy more than one.’ He focused on Ellen as she removed the other glass from his hand and placed it on the bar.
‘Sergeant Tolliver reckons we’re celebrating the solving of a case,’ she said before Orr could drum up some other inane comment. ‘Has there been any news on Tracy? A confession, or admission of complicity even?’
‘No’ that I’ve heard, hen, but Special Branch keep their cards close to their chests.’ In his head, this seemed to constitute a good reason to glance at Ellen’s breasts. ‘Stands to reason, though, doesn’t it? An infamous Fenian like Tracy, a couple of our boys who were keeping the peace over there murdered, a fuckin’ bombing in the town? It’s got to be down to him, nae fears.’
‘But the explosion was in a Catholic area. He’s hardly going to bomb his own people, is he?’
‘Gelignite’s dangerous stuff, hen. Light a match at the wrong moment and pouf!’ He mimicked the burst of an explosion with his hands. ‘Serves the bastards right, if you ask me. Anyway, it’s Special Branch’s case now. They’ll get him blabbing all right. They don’t mess around. National security and all that.’
‘But the evidence linking Tracy to it is mainly circumstantial so far.’
‘ “Circumstantial!” ’ Orr guffawed. ‘Spoken like a real polis, eh, Tolli?’
Tolliver nodded gravely, the equilibrium of the world threatened.
‘You did well yesterday, though, hen,’ Orr continued. ‘Quick thinking. Ignore what the Vicar said – it’s what we think that counts.’ He nodded over her shoulder. ‘Stick with Boyd, he’ll soon get you out your uniform.’ He leered. ‘Into plainclothes, I mean.’
Ellen didn’t bother looking over to where Strachan stood with the other officers, holding court in the adjacent snug, but she could feel his eyes on her. She had done for the entire evening. She hoped it was anger from having thrown a drink over him, but deep down she knew it wasn’t. The bar was clad in dark mahogany, intended to evoke the plush interior of a luxury liner, but all it made Ellen think of was a coffin.
Earlier in the evening she’d heard one of the other detectives talking to Brian Harvie about her: ‘I’d fire in there if I was you, wee man.’
Harvie, closest to Ellen’s age in the Murder Squad, had said, ‘Wouldn’t mind, she’s a wee stoatir, but I think the boss has got the barbed wire out around her.’
And not to protect me, Ellen had thought, remembering once again Strachan’s eyes on her in the rear-view mirror of the car as they drove to the canal.
She finished the port in her hand, set down her glass, left the one Orr had given her untouched. She thanked Tolliver for his company and said she was going to slip out quietly. He complimented her wisdom and admitted he would shortly do the same, adding, ‘Discretion is the better part of valour, especially where alcohol is concerned.’
Discretion is easier said than done, though, when you’re the only woman in the pub who’s not behind the bar. She nodded in solidarity to the barmaid as she made her way through the throng to the coat-stand, careful not to bump anyone or catch a wandering eye. She retrieved her coat and slipped out, putting it on as she walked away.
It was cold, the air damp, the smell of smoke heavy in the air. Visibility was beginning to fade, although the view along Glassford Street was still relatively clear. Ellen picked up her pace, but not even Willie McFarlane of Glasgow winning the Powderhall Sprint would have been enough to outrun the telltale creak of the door behind her.
She didn’t look round, but envisaged Strachan smoothing his moustache as he said, ‘Hold your horses, Miss Duncan. Can’t have a young lady walking home unescorted. Not when it’s my job to keep the streets safe.’
CHAPTER 38
‘So, what did you say to Mrs Hepburn?’
‘Me?’ Dreghorn recoiled, too innocent to be true. ‘Nothing.’
‘She stormed out with her battleaxe face on, I’ve seen it enough times to know,’ Rachel McAdam said.
‘That usually happens when I chat to women.’ He checked his watch. ‘Surprised you’re still here.’
‘Not for long, if you don’t answer my question truthfully.’ She raised an eyebrow, sipped her sherry, letting time stretch.
Uncomfortable now, Dreghorn broke away from her gaze, glanced out the windows at George Square, framed by the mist-shrouded outlines of the City Chambers on the east and the General Post Office to the south. A man and woman were crossing the square, arm-in-arm, another couple huddled together on a bench under the statuesque eye of Queen Victoria, on her high horse. He could almost feel them shivering. Romance in a cold climate and an overcrowded city. Mind you, when he was young he’d have braved an Arctic blizzard for a quick winch. Probably still would, he realized, catching Rachel’s reflection in the glass.
They were in the North British Station Hotel, one of the city’s finest, opened only a few years earlier and favoured by visiting dignitaries and Corporation bigwigs. It was Dreghorn’s first time inside, though of course he acted as if he spent all his spare time in such splendour.
Rachel had re-entered the church hall minutes after following Martha Hepburn out, announcing that the magistrate desired some fresh air and was making her own way home. She had then asked if Dreghorn was driving back to Turnbull Street. He told her no, he’d be walking the beat tonight. She offered to drive him, suggested that they stop for a drink on the way. Dreghorn briefly considered McDaid, unfairly toiling away back at the station. And accepted without hesitation.
He looked back at Rachel now, smiled reassuringly. ‘Really, it was nothing. A minor connection to another case. Can’t discuss the details, but, aye, sometimes I should be more tactful. A polisman’s lot, I suppose. You get so used to dealing with the bad yins that you expect the worst of everybody.’
‘Mrs Hepburn’s usually the one who does the cross-examining.’ She tailed off, then said, ‘Has someone made a complaint? Or threatened her?’
‘No, nothing like that. She’s not in any bother or danger.’ He put on his policeman’s voice. ‘It’d probably be better if you asked her.’
‘I did. She said, “Your friend was doing what he thinks is his job.” ’
‘Friend? That’s a bit presumptuous.’
‘It wasn’t me that said it – you’re on rocky ground just now.’ A pause as she became serious. ‘I’ve known Martha since I was a bairn, all through the Rent Strikes and up to now. It’s not been easy for her. She’s had to fight every step of the way. She’s the most upstanding person I know, Jimmy. If she’s in some sort of trouble . . .’
‘I like her too, Rachel. And if she is ever in trouble, you’ll be the first person I come too, but she’s not. All right?’ He glanced towards the bar, started to rise. ‘I’ll get us another drink, shall I?’
She wasn’t letting him off that easily. ‘They come to the table, Jimmy,’ she said, gesturing for a waiter.
With tips in mind, the man was over like a shot to take their order: a large Talisker for Dreghorn, another sherry for Rachel, the second for each of them. A stubborn silence descended as he went away.
Dreghorn broke first. ‘What are Mrs Hepburn’s circumstances outside of work? The job must bring a lot of responsibility. Is she married?’
Rachel slammed her hands on the table, leaned forward mischievously. ‘So that’s it, you’ve got your eye on her. Did you ask her to step out with you? Is that why she stormed off?’
‘Away, she’s old enough to be, well, not my mother maybe, but an auntie or something.’
‘Nobody would bat an eye, the other way round. You might be one of those – what do they call them? – gigolos, lurking around wealthy widows. Being a polis would be good cover for that sort of malarkey.’
‘Oh, aye. Detective by day, dance-hall devil by night. Lock up your daughters. Or your grannies, judging by your opinion of me.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Martha’s husband was killed in the war. They had a son, but the Spanish flu got him, just a bairn. She has had’ – she seemed to consider the wording – ‘relationships since, but nothing at the moment that I know of. Really, she’s devoted to the job. I like to think we’re friends, but we don’t talk too much about that sort of thing. It’s a good few years off, but she’s not looking forward to having to retire. I’m not looking forward to her going, myself. There’s not many would’ve given me the chances she has.’
‘You could take over from her. I’ll put in a good word.’
‘I doubt it’s as simple as that, Jimmy, but cheers anyway.’ Rachel raised her glass to his offer.
‘I’ll arrest them if they don’t.’
‘On what charge?’
‘Lack of common sense. Though we’d probably need to lock up the whole Corporation then.’
‘It’s a deal, inspector.’ She reached forward and they clinked glasses.
Dreghorn leaned back in his chair, sipping his whisky, feeling content for the first time in . . . he couldn’t remember how long. He looked away because he didn’t want to stare too long. The couple on the bench outside were wrapped in each other’s arms now, winching, in their own world.
‘You know,’ Rachel said, ‘at school I always thought you were going to ask me to the pictures, or to Risi’s Ices for a pokey hat. And during the Rent Strikes your ma said she’d get you to call on me when you came home from the Front. But you never did.’
Dreghorn shrugged forlornly. ‘I figured you were too classy to fall for, “Get your coat, hen, you’ve pulled.” ’
She raised the back of her hand to her forehead as if swooning at his romanticism, then smiled enigmatically. ‘You’ll never know now.’
Emboldened by the whisky, he was about to ask if she was sure about that, but the waiter was suddenly back at the table, delivering fresh drinks, though they’d hardly touched the last ones. He nodded across the bar before Dreghorn could speak.
‘Compliments of the gentleman, sir. Said you were old friends.’
Dreghorn looked over his shoulder to see Kitty Fraser, elegantly dressed and seated at another table with a lithe, dapper man. She nodded in sombre acknowledgement; the man smiled like the cat that got the canary and lifted his glass in a toast.
Dreghorn glanced at Rachel, returned the toast almost theatrically with the drink the man had sent over, then poured it into the nearest plant pot. The fern it held seemed to shudder, unacclimatized to straight whisky.
Rachel was smiling curiously when he turned back. ‘Someone else being presumptuous with the word “friend”?’
‘Teddy Levin,’ Dreghorn said, as if it explained everything.
‘The businessman?’
‘He’d be delighted to hear you say that, though business – legitimate business – is just the tip of the iceberg. You know how what we usually call gangsters here are often just wee neds running about the streets with chibs and knives, while in America they race about in cars firing tommy guns? Well, Teddy would fit in nicely with Capone and his cronies.’
‘You know him, then?’
‘We’ve stepped on each other’s toes.’
On the legal side of the street, Teddy Levin owned the Gordon Club – favoured by high heid yins throughout the city – and numerous other businesses, including menodge societies, pubs and cafes. Skip over to the shady side, though, and his acumen extended to blackmail, bookmaking, bribery, moneylending, prostitution and drugs.
The previous year, Levin had been the main suspect in a brutal murder. He was cleared, though not before he sent four bruisers round to tap dance on Dreghorn’s head for the inconvenience of the accusation. Not that the detective held a grudge. Vendetta would be more accurate.
‘Maybe I should throw it in his face.’ She nodded at the drink Levin had bought her. ‘Who’s the woman he’s with – his wife?’
‘Never seen her before, I don’t think.’ Dreghorn reached for his glass, changed the subject. ‘So how did you end up fighting in Mrs Hepburn’s Army?’
‘I helped her organize the resistance during the Rent Strikes, along with your mother.’ She smiled at the memories. ‘I worked in the Royal during the war, driving an ambulance, but after that I managed to get a scholarship to study law at Glasgow University from the Lady Jane Lockhart Educational Trust – you must have heard of it?’
The contentment curdled within him. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak without his voice cracking.
